To Find Somebody
by ladydirewolf1
Summary: What happens when a young John Watson meets another boy just as alone and confused as himself? Two boys forced together on a camping trip discover each other-and themselves.
1. Washed Away

**Dusk**

"Come on lads, we don't have all day!" Mr. Cook folded his arms and gave the boys his signature scowl. "Buddy up so we can start this damn trip! And remember, you're stuck with them for the entire week!"

John looked down at his boots and studied the cracked mud reaching up from the soles. _Why did Mum have to send me on another scouts trip?_ he thought, scrunching his fingers into a fist. _She knows I hate them, and even my bloody sister would rather be going._ They were all the same, these week-long camping trips. Cold nights, colder showers, and a whole lot of fourteen year-old boys screaming and yelling and fighting with sticks.

There was a gentle tap on his shoulder. John turned to find a tall, lanky boy staring back at him. He had just a few dark curls peaking out from beneath a woolen hat pulled low over his forehead. A tiny skull-and-crossbones was stitched just above the ear.

"There's no on else," the boy said, tugging at the hem of his coat.

John stared back, frowning. "Sorry?"

"There's no on else. Well, except for me and you. All the other boys have paired up." The boy pointed over John's shoulder at the line of boys heading out down the path. Sure enough, two-by-two they walked, cheering and whooping and stomping like the entire forest was just for them. "By my accounts I'm the only option you're likely to have."

"I don't even know your name," John said, settling his eyes back on the boy before him. _Like the sea_ , he noted, glancing at his eyes. _Like the sea was left out for too long in the sun and now the color's all washed away._

"I'm new." he said, shoving both hands deep inside his pockets. "My brother was a scout, though. They all said I'd love it here just like Mycroft."

"They said the same to me," John replied, giving the boy a faint smile. "I wouldn't hold out too much hope." The boy nodded like he already knew. When his head bent down the white embroidery flashed into view. "What's that for?" John asked, pointing.

A grin spread on his long face as he tugged off the hat, dark curls spilling out in the process. "My mum's not much for sewing, but I asked her to make an exception for my birthday once." The boy gestured for John to take it. The wool was soft, and obviously well-loved through the years. "I wanted to be a pirate," he explained, leaning forward to trace the small skull.

When John examined the hat he noticed an old spot rippling across the back, like the fabric had been burnt. "What happened here?"

"Oh," he started, shifting his feet. "That was Mycroft. He tried to throw it away a few months ago. He said pirates don't exist, and that I'd be better off studying chemistry or something."

"Well," John said, flipping the hat back over to look at the skull. "I think you'd make a great pirate." John stretched open the elastic and stood up on his tiptoes to lower the cap back over the dark curls, tucking them neatly inside When he was done John looked away, suddenly embarrassed at the heat rising to his cheeks. "Erm, we should get back to the group," John started, clearing his throat. "They're probably far down the path now."

The boy nodded and shoved his hands back in his pockets. The rest of the boys were a faint dot in the distance, but their heavy footprints were easy enough to follow down the slick path. Only watery light streaked through the dense trees, flitting through in greys and burnt oranges and sad reds. _Even the sun doesn't want to be here._

As they walked, John felt the boy's presence beside him and listened to the soft rustling of his coat. For some reason he found himself matching the boy's stride. "I'm John," he said quietly, not lifting his eyes from their splattered boots.

"Sherlock," the dark-haired boy replied. "You have a nice name."

John smirked at that. "And you have a funny one."


	2. Neon

**Neon**

By the time they reached the group night had fallen, and now the boys' ghoulish shadows leapt and played against the damp earth, fighting and whirling and laughing with sticks in their hands and grins on their lips. John looked at their game, unsure if he should join in. The boy he had met, Sherlock, stood on the outskirts of the clearing too, with a tree-sword gripped tight in his hand and a smile on his face as he swung and leapt all by himself. Sherlock didn't seem to care about playing by himself, not like John did.

"What a freak."

John jumped at the words, whipping around to see a boy beside him. He was about John's height, with cropped dark hair and even darker eyes. A stick was still clutched in his hand. "What? Oh, right. I guess so." John swallowed as his eyes followed the boy's to the blissfully ignorant Sherlock.

"'Course he his, everyone thinks so." The boy grinned. "I'm Jim, by the way."

"John."

"Do you know the freak?"

John shook his head. "Not really, we just met. But we're erm…buddies for the rest of the week." He noticed the boy's frown and quickly added: "Not that I wanted to. Gods, it'll be awful." He didn't like the way the boy looked at him.

Jim nodded in approval. "Let me know if he's bothering you, right? I'll take care of it." With a suggestive swoosh of the branch and a wink the boy ran back to the brawl, sword in hand and a cheer on his lips. John closed his fist.

John stayed by the trees until the group finally tired of their silly game, but walked reluctantly over at Mr. Cook's rather loud call.

"Gather 'round lads! Mr. Cook crossed his arms till the chattering quieted down, a scowl plastered on his hard face. "'Bout time. We've got your bags over there," he gestured to the climbing pile of greens and browns and blacks, "and your tents over here," he pointed to the black bags leaning against a picnic bench. "You'll be sharing with your partner, and I'll not be hearing no whining about it, you hear? I want them up with you inside within the hour!"

The boys rushed forward, shoving and pushing each other out of the way to grab the best tent. When they finally cleared away, John approached the bench.

"There are none left," Sherlock said quietly, approaching from the left.

He was right, only dust and scraps of paper littered the ground. John hesitated, glancing up at Sherlock before turning to walk towards their scouts leader. Mr. Cook sat at one of the tables flipping through some clipboard. "Mr. Cook?"

The man looked up with a huff. "What is it, Watson?"

John looked at his feet, then back up. "All the tents, sir…they're none left."

Mr. Cook frowned and stared at him for what seemed like ages. Finally, after spitting at the ground, he gave a gruff reply: "Go check the truck, there might be an extra."

John nodded, giving Sherlock a hopeful smile as he passed by on the way to the truck. He grasped the peeling white metal in his hands and peered down into the pickup's bed. _Well this is bloody great._ He hauled the bag over his shoulder and plopped it down by Sherlock's feet.

"No one will ignore us in a bloody _orange_ tent," John said bitterly, giving Sherlock a look.

The boy blinked, once, twice, and frowned at the bag. "It's not orange, it's _neon_ ," he said, looking up with a smile.

John smiled back.

* * *

Thanks for reading, and please let me know what you think so far!


End file.
